


The Longing

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Thorin, Cultural Differences, Language of Flowers, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Quest, Rating May Change, Secret Identity, Soul Bond, The Shire, courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Longing hits at a completely unreasonable time. Thorin, however, was not surprised in the slightest that it happened the way it happened. If the past five years were anything to go by, he wasn’t exactly the luckiest creature in Middle Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Longing

The Longing hits at a completely unreasonable time. Thorin, however, was not surprised in the slightest that it happened the way it happened. If the past five years were anything to go by, he wasn’t exactly the luckiest creature in Middle Earth.

So of course the Longing hits when he’s trudging through the forest somewhere in the West, looking for the next town over to make some money. He’d been in Bree for three months now, and made a substantial amount to send back to the Blue Mountains to what was left of his family. One of the Men he’d worked for had informed him of little creatures, not Human nor Dwarf, needing a great deal of work done. They did not learn the skill of smithing for themselves and relied entirely on outside work. So Thorin had made for Hobbiton, which he was informed was not far south west of Bree, but he seemed to have gotten turned around, and how he was quite lost.

Which is back to his original point: cold and wet and lost and on top of all that his Longing decides to rear up and smack him in the head.

The Healers had said that it was fine- that his Longing was delayed by the trauma he had experienced when they lost Erebor and were forced to wander across the Brown Lands, searching for help that none would give.

And Thorin had felt his heart close off and harden, and he and felt for certain that he would not feel such things- for it seemed that opening up led to betrayal.

So this in no way gave him relief or excitement, it only served to make his life more difficult.

Like right now for example, stumbling through the forest with some strange pounding in his head like a rhythmic beat; if he wasn’t lost before he certainly was now.

But the further he went the louder the pounding got, and soon enough he’d managed to find his way out of the forest and onto a small winding path. The rain was so heavy that he could barely see in front of himself, but he was fairly certain there was a light in the distance, so he headed towards it, trudging on because he had no other option.

The pounding had gotten so loud at this point that he could not even hear the hammer of the rain over it anymore, and he became even more disoriented, tripping over something that sent him tumbling. He landed on something hard, feeing his head crack against it, and when he rolled onto his back his vision cleared slightly and he found he was lying on a set of stairs. At least here, sheltered slightly by the alcove above the door the rain isn’t too much of a problem.

Which was the last thought in his head as he drifted off, watching the door open.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve heard about the rudeness of Dwarves, but I’ve never believed it before now!” Bilbo told the unconscious figure as he hauled him inside. “I mean, honestly! Falling off my roof at this time of night!” Bilbo groaned, straining under the weight of the stranger before all but dropping him onto the day bed in his living room. “Now there’s mud and water all over the place, and I just mopped!” He surveyed his unexpected visitor now properly, finding he was quite soaked and had a raging fever. “Oh, dear. We’ll have to get you into some dry clothes.”

He started with the boots first, because he always thought shoes were useless things. He set them neatly by the front door. Then there were the socks (which he hung near the fire) and his furs (which were surprisingly heavy) which he put in the washroom.

He hesitated briefly as he undid the belt around the strangers tunic, but really what kind of host would he be if he let the man die of hypothermia? He had an obligation here.

The Dwarf’s underclothes were relatively dry, the heavy furs having mostly protected them, so Bilbo decided it was best to just leave them be. He grabbed a heavy blanket and set it over him before pressing a warm cloth to the stranger’s forehead. “This really isn’t how I’d expected to spend my night, I’ll have you know. I thought maybe I’d finish dinner, read some more of that book Gerontius lent me, and then call it an early night. But instead I’m nursing a Dwarf who decided to fall off my roof and into my doorstep like he rolled off one of the storm clouds!”

Of course the stranger didn’t reply, but that didn’t stop Bilbo.

“Not that I don’t mind visitors, of course. But this isn’t the polite kind of visit one expects. Usually someone knocks, to begin with. And then when the door is open they’re not unconscious; _or_ in need of medical attention. This is not how civilized folk behave.” He sighed now. “I do hope you don’t fall off every roof you pass by; that can’t be good for you head... or your ego, for that matter.”

 _That_ elicited a small groan in reply, but the stranger remained mostly unconscious.

“This is going to be a long night,” Bilbo sighed.

 

* * *

 

Thorin woke up to the sound of birds chirping outside and warm sunlight on his face. He certainly feels better than he had the night before- lost and dripping wet with a pounding head. He could recall falling and hitting his head, and then he must have passed out, because everything else is black. Strangely enough he’s only in his underclothes, but on the bright side he doesn’t think he’s been robbed. When he rolled over and opened his eyes fully he could see he was in some sort of family room. He could also smell bacon.

Now a Dwarf can smell bacon from a mile away that much is true, but Thorin thinks it’s similar for all other species. He’s seen Men look at the meat with such a reverence you’d think they were looking at the Maker.

He can also see his socks hanging by the fire, and he hasn’t had much experience with thieves (thankfully) he knows that they don’t go about keeping your socks dry and warm after they steal your things. Besides which, Thorin’s clothes are well worn and well made, but they’re hardly exceptional. No one would go out of their way to strip him of his furs because they really weren’t worth much at all.

Thorin sat up now, pushing the blanket off his lap and swinging his legs over and onto the ground. He wobbled a little as he stood up, but mostly kept his balance. He began to feel a little vulnerable, standing in naught but his undershirt and trousers, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.

There was a humming coming from down one of the many halls, and he followed it to find that the hall widened into a cost kitchen with a little creature standing at the hearth, flipping bacon and eggs in a frying pan. He had his back turned, so he had not seen Thorin enter.

Thorin cleared his throat to signal his presence, and the creature jumped a little and turned to face him.

“Oh, you’re awake!”

Thorin, feeling like the wind had suddenly been knocked out of him, struggled to formulate a reply. “I...”

“I was wondering when you’d get up. I made extra breakfast just in case. Come on then, sit down,” he waved at the table with his spatula.

Thorin did as he was told automatically, still staring as bacon and eggs were set neatly onto plates.

“There we go.”

He had a dozen questions and queries, like who this creature, whatthis creature was, if he even knew who _Thorin_ was. “What’s wrong with your feet?” was what he blurted out instead.

“I’m sorry?” he looked at his feet, which were a great deal larger than Thorin’s and certainly hairier, and then he laughed. “Oh yes. I can see why you might be confused; you have such dainty little feet.”

Thorin felt himself redden. “Dainty!” he repeated. “They are not dainty.” He’d never been called dainty before, and he wasn’t going to have any of that now.

The creature grinned a little, giving him a gentle look. “I’m afraid they are.”

Thorin wanted to be outraged because no Dwarf should have their feet mocked. But he just couldn’t find it in himself to be angry; not with bacon in front of him waiting to be eaten, and the object of his Longing sitting across the table. “What is your name, creature?” he asked now, tugging his plate closer and grabbing a fork. “And what exactly _are_ you?”

“Well, I’m a Hobbit, of course,” it is said like Thorin should know what a Hobbit is, which he doesn’t, clearly. he's seen plenty of small folk in Bree, but he's never known what they were before, and has never bothered to ask before.

“And where am I?”

“You’re in the Shire, in Hobbiton.”

Well, at least he made it to his intended destination. Small victories.

“And it’s Bilbo.”

“What is?”

“My name?” the crreature replied with a confused look on his face.

“Ah,” Thorin had thought the word ‘Bilbo’ might have been some sort of street name or something else ridiculous. “Bilbo,” the word felt good on his tongue, although he didn’t say that to the Hobbit. “I am Thorin Oakenshield; I thank you for your kindness.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Bilbo waved his words off casually, “after all I could hardly just leave you on my doorstep, could I? Especially not after you fell off my roof and all...”

“I fell off your roof?” he queried, baffled. “I was walking on a pathway.”

“Yes,” Bilbo nodded.

Thorin was perhaps more confused now than he had been before. “I am not sure I understand...” he declared.

“I’ll show you after breakfast. Now tuck in- your eggs are getting cold.”

Once again Thorin did as asked, because cold eggs would be a travesty.

 

* * *

 

After they had finished eating, Bilbo stayed true to his word and led Thorin outside to explain how he could fall off a roof while walking on a path.

“Your houses are _underground_?” He turned in a circle, looking at the other houses down the road. He was not fully dressed yet, but Bilbo had been considerate enough to point out where his furs were so he could at least be partly clothed when they went outside.

It was clearly still early in the morning, however, so although he could hear signs of life further into the Shire the roads were mostly empty, sparing him the embarrassment of onlookers to his unbecoming appearance.

“They’re called Hobbit Holes,” Bilbo clarified. “It is much cooler in summer and warmer in winter. I’m sure you understand yourself- living in Mountains and all.”

Thorin thought about it for a moment. “Why not further underground, then?” he wondered after a moment or two.

“Because we’d never get our tomatoes to grow underground, and let’s not even get started on carrot or potatoes. Besides, there’s nothing quite so nice as a nice breeze on a sunny day.” He looked about now, smiling to himself.

Thorin surveyed the area also, but could not see what of it was so much better than the thick walls of his old home and the effervescent light that glowed from them. But Bilbo had never seen Erebor before. “It is decent enough,” he allowed, “for a Hobbit.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, but did not seem to take offence. “You Dwarves are awfully rude, you know,” he pointed out.

Thorin did not have a reply for that.

“We’d better get you back inside,” Bilbo declared now. “You’re still recovering and you need all the rest you can get. If you have anyone you need to contact,” he went on as they stepped back inside, “you can write a letter and I’ll give it to the post man to send. Just so they know you’re... well, _alive_ and everything.”

Thorin nodded. “That would be helpful, yes,” he agreed.

“You’ll find everything you need in the study,” he disappeared into the kitchen then, and after a moment poked his head around the corner to look at Thorin to add: “it’s the first room on the right,” before disappearing again.

Thorin made his way to the study now, wondering how in Mahal he’d explain this whole thing in a letter.

 

* * *

 

Within four hours of being in the company of Hobbits, Thorin decided that they did indeed live a comfortable life. They seemed to have no real threats, nor any great problems and why should they? They live in a quiet little nook, carved between a prosperous mountain range to the west and a string of well-off towns filled with Men to the East, and beyond are the realms of Kings and Queens. Their home sat right on the path of a trade route, close enough to reap all of the benefits but far enough away to avoid any issues. Their ground fertile and their lands large to sustain their population comfortably, so much so that seven meals a day for hundreds of Hobbits seems to be no strain on their resources at all.

Not that he’d likely complain about the food- he’d be mad to do such a thing.

He only found the parallels between his life and Bilbo’s somewhat humorous. Thorin had lost everything but in a stark contrast this Hobbit seemed to have a life of abundance and splendour; a comfortable and pleasant life.

Thorin was of course pleased by the knowledge that his One could live so peacefully and unperturbed but he did also feel envious; and a little angry.

Bilbo was kind and smart, but also soft and weak. The only weapons it seemed he could wield were the small knives he used for cutting vegetables. He would have no real skill in a Dwarvish setting.

But after a moment’s thought he decided that perhaps that was the point. After all, bonded pairs are supposed to complement each other, and Bilbo had skill in what Thorin lacked; logic and optimism and kindness and softness.

Thorin was highly paranoid and suspicious, he knew that. Bilbo, however, was trusting and somewhat naïve. Bilbo had the innocence that Thorin had torn from him when his home was taken.

“Are you ready for dinner?” Bilbo called down the hall now, jolting Thorin out of his thoughts.

“Just a moment,” he called back, turning back to the small washbasin he had been using. He wrung out the cloth one more time and ran it over his face before setting it back down.

They ate dinner in a companionable silence, and Thorin found it relieving that Bilbo didn’t feel the need to fill the empty space between them with awkward and banal conversation.

“Would you like a smoke?” Bilbo asked after he’d cleared the table. “I don’t have much Old Toby left, I forgot to buy some more last week when I was out, but there’s more than enough for the two of us.”

Thorin agreed, not having had the luxury to just sit and smoke from his pipe for a great deal of time now. They sat out from of Bilbo’s home on the small chair in the garden and looked down at the rest of Hobbiton and beyond. It was dark now, and all the fires inside were lighting up the windows and Thorin could see smoke coming from the chimneys. There were lanterns down near the river and Bilbo pointed out where the Party Tree was.

“It is a pleasant sight,” Thorin declared, watching Bilbo blow smoke rings.

“Oh Bag End is the envy of all other Hobbit Holes,” he replied proudly. “My father built it for my mother to woo her,” he grinned. “It clearly worked.”

Thorin was about to say that his father built his mother another two wings to the royal library to win her over, but then he remembered that Bilbo didn’t know about his heritage. Not that it mattered; he wasn’t a Prince anymore anyway. He was in exile, with no real home to go back to.

“An impressive feat,” he said instead. “Do all Hobbits build houses to impress each other?”

“Oh no,” Bilbo laughed now. “In fact, usually they just give each other flowers or a homemade gift. My father went above and beyond, but I suppose love does that to you.”

Thorin murmured his agreement, and they went back to smoking in silence.

 

* * *

 

He spent a week in Bag End before receiving a reply to the letter he sent to the Blue Mountains. Admittedly he had gotten so comfortable with Bilbo that he’d completely forgotten about the letter altogether. He was even walking around Bag End without his boots on.

The letter was from his sister, telling him to take all the time he needed to recover before returning home. He snorted at her use of the word ‘home’, because their home was half way across Middle Earth, inhabited by a dragon. A small pouch of gold accompanied the letter, and Thorin offered it to Bilbo as payment for his kindness.

“Nonsense!” Bilbo declared. “I don’t need any gold from you. In case you haven’t noticed I’m quite well off anyway. If you really want to pay me back for staying here you could fix those pots of mine; I heard Dwarves are very good at that kind of thing and I don’t plan on going to Bree for a few months at least.”

“That I can do,” Thorin replied, moving over to the counter and inspecting them. “These are very weak,” he remarked. “And old.”

Bilbo shrugged. “They still work quite well. Very good quality.”

“They’re worn down,” Thorin told him. “Perhaps I could just forge you some more?”

“You want to _make_ me pots? If they’re really that beyond saving, Thorin, I can just go buy some more-”

“There is no need for that,” it was Thorin’s turn to argue now. “You wanted me to pay you back in a way that did not require gold, so I will do this.”

“Well, there’s s sorry excuse for a forge in the Market, but it’s been closed for a very long time, and-”

“As long as it has all the equipment I require, we will have no problems. I am told you Hobbits have a great deal of work needing to be done; it was the reason I came this way in the first place.”

“Well then you’d have to talk to Rotho- he owns the land. I can take you to him soon, if you’d like.”

“That would be most helpful.”

Bilbo nodded. “In the meantime you can help me pickle these carrots.”

Thorin had no idea how to pickle anything, but he’d certainly try his best.

Rotho was suspicious at first, but when Thorin offered him the bag of gold he’s intended to give to Bilbo he was a lot more interested and gladly offered to rent out the old forge.

Bilbo had been right- the place was a complete dump. But Thorin had worked in worse conditions, and once word spread he even had a few curious customers. His commissions were simple things- pots like Bilbo’s, latches for fences and other various knick-knacks.

He worked on Bilbo’s pots first, which were easily done, before moving on to other things.

The days went faster with him working, and although he suggested (begrudgingly of course) that he could now afford to stay in the inn and Bilbo did not need to keep him in his house, Bilbo insisted it was no problem.

“I quite enjoy the company,” Bilbo declared eventually. “I mean, it’s been so long since anyone else has stayed here with me. Sometimes my cousins come to stay, but it’s awfully quiet.”

“It is a large house for just one person,” Thorin agreed. “You’re an only child?”

Bilbo nods. “A bit strange for Hobbits, I suppose. Everyone I know has had at least two or three children.”

“Dwarves tend to have large broods as well,” he replied. “When they do have children, that is.”

“Is it uncommon for you kind to have children?”

“We do not marry often, and if we do not have a Longing it is even more unlikely.”

“Longing?” Bilbo asked.

“It usually happens as the Dwarrow comes of age,” he explained. “If a Dwarrow doesn’t get a Longing it’s unlikely they will marry.”

“And if they do get a Longing?”

“Then they must wait,” he said simply.

“For what?” he wondered.

“For another who experienced a similar Longing.”

Bilbo frowned, looking confused. “Like… soul mates?”

“I suppose so,” Thorin himself has never liked that term. “I am told Elves have a similar experience, but I do not hold much interest in knowing.” There are many things Dwarves keep secret about their culture, and the Longing is just one of many. Besides, Thorin had no interest at all in knowing about the culture of Elves.

“How very fascinating,” Bilbo commented. “Hobbits don’t have anything like that.”

“No?” Thorin asked.

“We just marry whoever we want to marry; there’s no great plan set out for us, no one person chosen just for us. It sounds nice.”

“If you have a Longing, yes, I suppose. And if you find your One. But a great deal of my people don’t get to experience either, which is not so pleasant.”

Bilbo nodded. “I much prefer not having anything.”

Thorin wasn’t sure what to say in reply to that. But he supposed that having a choice might be nice. But it seemed like an awful mess.

“You’re becoming quite popular, you know,” he said suddenly, bringing Thorin out of his reverie.

“Popular?” he repeated, suspicious.

Bilbo laughed, looking absolutely delighted at Thorin’s reaction. “No need to be so cynical about it. Hobbits can be nice… when we want to be.”

“Fine,” Thorin sighed now. “Tell me, then; why am I popular?”

“Because you’re fixing all our things! You made me new pots, and a new lock of Otho’s door, and Hamfast is telling everyone what a wonderful job you did fixing his favourite soup pot.”

Thorin restrained himself from declaring how odd Hobbits are, and instead just shrugs. “Why should they like me for such things? They pay me for it.”

“That is much the same as saying no one likes Madam Seltan’s famous pie because she sells it for two silvers per piece.”

“I’ve never had Madam Seltan’s pie,” Thorin pointed out.

“And you shouldn’t. Mine is much better.”

Thorin regarded him with amusement. “Surely it is,” he agreed, honest in his words but teasing in his tone. “Perhaps you ought to start selling yours.”

“I’d had to make a fuss about it,” Bilbo pulls at his trousers now, cheeks reddening. “She’s made the most money at the markets for such a long time now, and you know Hobbits; we hate change.”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “You Halfling’s worry about strange and trivial tings and care not for important matters,” he declared. “You are willing to pay a great deal for weeds-”

“Flowers,” Bilbo corrected, accosting.

“But complain when I charge reasonable prices for locks on your doors.”

Bilbo waved his words away. “That is because we have more of a use for flowers then locks,” he reminded Thorin. “We use flowers in tea and medicine, and they can also be gifts. They have many uses. But a lock only has one use-”

“A very important use.”

“Perhaps if you live in the Blue Mountains, but this is the Shire, Thorin.”

“You were complaining the other day about Lobelia having stolen your precious silver spoons; and then those little children ran past with a bag of potatoes they’d stolen from that farmer-”

“Your point is?”

“My point is if you people used the locks on your doors there’d be a lot less complaining about stealing.”

Bilbo made an exasperated noise and got to his feet. “It’s too late for this,” he told Thorin. “Dinner has made me too full and content to argue with you- so I am off to bed.”

Thorin was about to open his mouth and say something about coming to bed with him before he realised his place and shut his mouth with a click. The past few weeks had made him far too contented; his tongue felt loose and would likely get him into trouble if he didn’t take care to stay it.

He simply said goodnight in reply and watched Bilbo disappear down the hall.

He had to do something about this.

 

* * *

 

“Hamfast,” Thorin frowned at the gardener over the fence as he pulled at his weeds. “A question, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Certainly not, Master Thorin.” He dusted his hands on his pants to wipe the dirt off before getting to his feet and walking over. “What can I help you with on this fine mornin’?”

“I was curious,” he began, but paused, suddenly unsure how to finish.

“Yes?”

“About… flowers,” his words were stilted and awkward.

“Flowers?” Hamfast repeated. “Well, what did you want to know?”

“You give them as gifts?” he queried.

Hamfast nodded. “Sometimes, yes,” he replied.

“What kind of situation warrants flowers as a gift?”

“Depends on who you’re givin’ them to. A friend or a family member or a significant other-”

“You have courting flowers?” he interrupted, because Hamfasts’s eyes had taken on a dreamy sort of look and Thorin assumed it was about that Bell girl who was always walking past and giggling with her friends.

Hamfast gave him a sly look. “This about what I think it’s about?”

Thorin sighed, hating the way he could feel his face heating up. “Can you help me? I need to pick the right ones and I don’t know anything about flowers-”

“Oh!” as if suddenly realising something, Hamfast darted across the garden and into his house, leaving his front door wide open.

Thorin frowned to himself. “Is he just going to leave me standing here, or…?”

But Hamfast returned after a minute or two, carrying a worn and well-read book in his hand. He held it over the fence for Thorin.

Thorin inspected it, finding that once he opened it there were detailed drawings of different flowers that grew around the Shire and their meanings. “This is… very helpful, Hamfast. Thank you.”

“No problem at all. Just take care of it.”

Thorin nodded. “I have to get back to work,” he said. “Excuse me.”

“Good luck!” Hamfast called after him, loud enough for all his neighbours to hear.

He alternated that afternoon between hastily working on his latest commissions to pausing frequently to flip through the book Hamfast had lent him. He found it incredibly frustrating, mostly because most of the flowers looked almost exactly like one another. At least to him they did. He’s sure if he asked a Hobbit they’d given him a ten hour lecture on how the leaves are shaped slightly different or some such nonsense.

He wouldn’t mind all that much if it were Bilbo, though. Thorin could listen to him talk about anything for hours on end.

He hid the book in the lining of his furs before heading back to Bag End so Bilbo couldn’t find it.

“You’re late,” Bilbo scolded from the kitchen.

“I was… distracted.” Thorin hooked his outer-coat on the wall before sitting down to slip off his boots.

“Are all Dwarves so obsessed with their work?”

“Usually,” Thorin replied. “We take great pride in our work.”

“Great obsession, more like,” Bilbo came out into the hall now, just as Thorin was standing up. “Honestly, you’d think there was nothing else in the entire world but Dwarves and their forges the way you all behave.”

Thorin rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be led into the kitchen. Bilbo had already set a pot of stew out on the table. “Dwarves do things other than forge, you know.”

“Oh yes? Like what?”

“We do many things you do; we read and write, we make things, we play music, we learn to dance-”

“What sort of things do you write?” Bilbo interrupted, looking curious.

Thorin shrugged. “Lots of things; stories and ballads and poetry-”

“Poetry?”

“Yes, poetry.”

“About rocks?”

“ _Gems_.”

“So you do write poetry about rocks?”

“Just as you write poetry about weeds,” Thorin returned mockingly.

Bilbo laughed. “Fine, fine,” he put his hands up. “I understand. You will have to tell me some Dwarven poetry, then.”

“We only write it in Khuzdul.”

“Then you will have to make some of your won up and write it in Westron.”

“Just so you can read it?”

“Why don’t I carve you something instead?”

“Carve me something?” Bilbo repeated.

“Yes, it’s much easier than translating an epic poem into Westron.”

“What do Dwarves carve then?”

“Trinket and toys,” Thorin told him, “and Nazgu albâth, of course.”

“Nazgu albâth?” Bilbo prodded, his tongue un-masterfully pronouncing the words.

Thorin chuckled. “There is a day we celebrate, the Day of Albâth. I do not know if you have it here.”

“What is it?”

“A day of adoration. It is a fanciful celebration; we carve each other little wooden rings and hand them out to those you most adore. Some do not like to participate.”

“Because of the One thing?” Bilbo wondered.

Thorin nodded. “But parents make rings for their children, and vice versa. It is a nice celebration.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“You do not have any such celebrations here?”

Bilbo shook his head. “Nothing like that. It’s lovely.”

Thorin just shrugged. He hadn’t celebrated such a thing since his parents died; since Erebor had been lost; since his people were left homeless. It didn’t seem that he had the right after all that.

“The stew is nice,” he said, if only to change the subject.

“It’s a new recipe,” Bilbo replied, “I thought I’d give it a go.”

They fell into silence for a while before Thorin spoke up. “Do flowers have to have meanings?”

Bilbo looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Well, who decided that flowers had meanings?”

“I don’t know,” Bilbo replied. “It’s always been like that.”

“But who decided what each flower meant?”

“Well I don’t know. I’m not _that_ old. Why are we talking about this?”

“They confuse me,” Thorin told him.

“Well of course they do! It took me ten years of learning to be able to know them and their meanings. It’s not something you can just pick up. It’s a very confusing and subtle way of communication.”

Thorin already had a headache just thinking about it. “Why don’t you people just write each other letters or something normal?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “What do Dwarves do, then?”

“Well, there’s an initial courting stage that takes seven months or so-”

“Seven months?!”

“Yes, and then if the other party agrees there’s a further year of interaction, which includes the initiator proving to the chosen party that they are able to provide for and look after that person, as well as keep them contented. A show of strengths, if you will.”

“Right,” Bilbo said.

“And then once the year is over if both parties are agreeable to it, betrothal gifts are exchanged and an engagement is announced.”

“And the engagement is how long?”

“However long they wish it to be. Before the engagement is commenced, however, both families must agree to it.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then the engagement is considered void.”

“Have families ever said no to an engagement?”

“It is extremely rare,” Thorin explained. “If there is any problem it is usually brought up during the courting stage. The process is long to prevent such things from happening.”

“It sounds… complex.”

“Not as complex as your flower language,” Thorin argued.

“Oh, hush you!” Bilbo tossed a bit of bred at his face.

“That is incredibly rude,” he commented, tearing a chunk off his own bread and lobbing it in Bilbo’s direction.

Bilbo stood up and grabbed the whole bread roll now, and when Thorin grabbed the rest of his in return he put a hand up.

“Let’s not waste the bread,” he declared, “it would be pity.”

“That is would,” Thorin agreed. “Truce?”

“Temporarily,” Bilbo nodded, and they slowly returned to their food.

Thorin stayed up late that night, sitting up in his bed and frowning at the book of flowers.

 

* * *

 

“You’re hurt,” Thorin said to Bilbo a week later, noticing the bandage around his hand.

Bilbo paused in his reading to glance at it. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he insisted.

“What happened?”

“I just nicked it cutting the grass, it’s nothing.”

Thorin leaned over and lifted his hand up, gingerly inspecting it. “Surely Hamfast has been doing that for you.”

“He was busy today so I did it myself. It was just a silly mistake, Thorin. It’s fine.”

“You haven’t even wrapped it properly.”

“That’s because I’m going to wash it and put some ointment on and then put some fresh cloth around it- this one got dirty while I was making breakfast.”

Thorin frowned. “Dwarves do not let one another tend to wounds on their own,” he announced.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a Dwarf,” Bilbo commented, standing up. “It’s fine. Just finish your tea; it’s getting cold.”

Thorin leaned back into his chair and grabbed his cup again, watching Bilbo leave the room. “Stubborn Hobbits,” he groused.

“Stubborn Dwarves!” Bilbo called back, having heard him complain.

Thorin would have shouted back, but a knock on the door prevented him from doing so. He got to his feet with a groan and made his way over.

When he pulled it open however, he was at a loss for words.

“What? Not gonna say hello?”

“Dwalin,” Thorin replied, confused, “what are you doing here?”

“Now is that any way to treat an old friend? How about you let me in- give me some of whatever it is that smells delicious.” Dwalin pushed his way past Thorin without waiting for an answer, taking off his cloak and tracking mud all over the floor. All Thorin could think was that Bilbo wasn’t going to like that.

Bilbo came down the hall now, clearly oblivious to the new visitor. “Who was knocking on the- oh. Another Dwarf?” he asked, surprised. “You’re not lost as well, are you?”

“As well?” Dwalin repeated before looking over at Thorin. It took him all of two seconds before he burst into peals of laughter.

“Don’t tell Dis,” was all Thorin could say, and it only served to make Dwalin laugh more.

He slapped Thorin on the back. “Nice to know some things haven’t changed. Now, I’m starvin’.”

“Oh how rude of me,” Bilbo said, “come this way and we’ll get you something to eat.”

“My kind of hospitality,” Dwalin told Thorin before following Bilbo into the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

“You haven’t been home in a long time, my friend,” Dwalin declared, mouth full of bread and bacon. He’d cleared three plates of food so far and didn’t seem to have any intention of stopping. “You should come back with me- see your sister and her sons again. They miss you.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a sister,” Bilbo said.

“Aye, not a Dwarf of many words, this one,” he ruffled Thorin’s hair like he was a youngling.

“Enough,” Thorin warned him.

Dwalin rolled his eyes but nonetheless turned his attention away from Thorin. “So this is your new friend, eh?”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo answered.

“Dwalin,” he replied, shovelling more food into his mouth. “Nice place you get ‘ere. You’ve been keepin’ him comfortable, I suppose.”

“I, well, yes,” Bilbo replied, as if that should be obvious. “I’d be a bad host if I wasn’t.”

“Ah, well, we’ll be sure to remunerate you for housin’ him; he’s a bit of a bastard to live with.”

“Thorin’s been just fine,” Bilbo insisted. “And there is no need for remuneration.”

Dwalin stopped eating long enough to frown at Bilbo like he’d grown a second head. “You don’t want money?”

“I don’t want anything,” Bilbo replied. “I don’t need anything.”

“But we have to give you remuneration- you’ve been housin’ our-”

“Dwalin,” Thorin cut him off harshly. “Can I have a word with Dwalin in private, Bilbo?”

Bilbo seemed confused but left the room so they could speak.

“Cosy little place,” Dwalin declared to fill the silence.

“You can’t tell him,” Thorin said, ignoring the comment.

“What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t know-”

“Doesn’t know?” he demanded, voice raised a little.

Thorin hushed him. “No,” he said. “It’s… complicated.”

He regarded Thorin now with suspicion. “Complicated how?”

“I went into my Longing-” Thorin began, but Dwalin hit the roof.

“You what?!”

“And I passed out,” he continued, trying to quieten his friend. “When I woke up I was here and Bilbo- he was… well, he’s…”

Comprehension dawned on Dwalin’s face and he looked over to the hall Bilbo had disappeared down. “Him?” he demanded, gesturing to nothing. “You’re joking! _A little Hobbit_?!”

“Yes! And my point is that he doesn’t know,” Thorin hissed. “Any of it. So I need you to keep quiet about it; at least for now.”

“How the hell are you going to explain it to him?”

“I don’t know, but now isn’t the best time.”

Dwalin sighed. “It’s not like I can argue with you,” he said. “This is your business- your trouble to handle.”

“Yes it is,” Thorin agreed. “And I have no idea what to do.”

“And I don’t have any advice for you; at least my One’s a Dwarf,” Dwalin paused. “Even if he’s not of age yet,” he added.

Thorin just snorted as Bilbo poked his head back into the kitchen now “I don’t know if you’re still hungry, Dwalin, but I’ve got cookies cooling on the window in the living room if you’d like some-”

“Cookies?” Dwalin snapped to attention. “Aye, I’m comin’.”

 

* * *

 

Dwalin helped at the forge most days, when he wasn’t gorging himself on Bilbo’s cookies.

“No wonder Hobbits are so round!” he declared one morning, polishing off an oatmeal batch Bilbo had made him for breakfast. “All this food is so good.”

Thorin (besides stewing over the fact that Bilbo never made him so many cookies) was trying to finish off a particularly pesky set of horseshoes. “I thought you said you were going to help.”

“I did,” Dwalin replied.

“And?” he prodded.

“I am. Just as soon as my stomach settles.”

“That might take until lunch,” Thorin groused.

“Your point?” his friend wondered.

“My point is that when it hits lunch you’ll eat again and then have to wait for your stomach to settle again, which won’t be until dinner- and you see where I’m going with this?”

“Aye, I do. But I’m still not rushing into anything. What’s this?”

“What’s what?” Thorin asked, not looking up from his task.

“This,” Dwalin waved the flower book in his face.

“Nothing! Give it here.”

“What’s this about flowers, then?”

“It’s some silly thing Hobbits like to do. Send each other messages through plants.”

Dwalin made a face. “Why?” he wondered.

Thorin shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just reading about it, okay?”

“You been sending flower love letters to the Hobbit?”

“No,” Thorin sighed. “I was thinking about it,” he admitted. “But I don’t know what I’d pick for him.”

“What about the blue one here?” Dwalin suggested, having flipped the book open to a random page.

“It says there that means mourning, Dwalin.”

“I suppose that’s a bad idea, then. Is there no flower that means ‘I’m actually secretly a Prince and we’re soul mates but I didn’t tell you ‘cause I was a coward’?”

“There likely could be but knowing my luck it’s probably incredibly rare and only grows in one of the Elf Kingdoms.”

Dwalin laughed, and Thorin went back to work but he kept reading, making suggestions every few minutes.

“This one means adoration,” or “this one means ardent apology.”

“Why would I need to apologise ardently?” Thorin wondered when Dwalin had suggested it.

“Well _I_ wouldn’t want to be stuck with you,” he replied, and Thorin threw him out of the forge.

He finished the horseshoes a few hours later and closed the forge, heading straight for Hamfast’s house.

“Where do I go to pick flowers?” he demanded as soon as the door was open.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Hamfast said, amused. “And it depends on what kind of flowers you mean to get.”

“I don’t know,” Thorin said, at the end of his tether, “whatever one’s mean love. I don’t care! I don’t care if they make me sneeze or if they’re ugly as all hell. I just want some damn flowers.”

Hamfast repressed a laugh, but not very well. “I can take you to a place now, if you’d like.”

Thorin, still fuming, said his thank you’s a little more violently than necessary. “Good.”

They didn’t end up going too far, just ten minutes walk from the river, where there was a field of nice looking red flowers. At least Thorin thought they looked nice.

“Do Hobbits think these look nice?” he wondered.

“Oh yes,” Hamfast replied, helping him pick some.

“How many do I need?”

“About a dozen.”

After a short period of awkward flower picking Thorin bid goodbye to Hamfast and headed back to Bag End.

Dwalin was waiting for him in the living room when he returned. “Well, look whose home-”

“Get out Dwalin.”

Dwalin left, but did so laughing loudly.

“Where’s Dwalin going?” Bilbo wondered, coming out of his room down the hall.

“Just out,” Thorin replied, hiding the flowers behind his back. “I… have something for you.”

Bilbo looked surprised. “You do?”

Thorin felt a little awkward. “Yes. Is that… alright?”

“Well, of course,” Bilbo told him. “Just a little out of the blue, is all.”

“Here,” Thorin pushed the flowers at Bilbo as if they’d offended him. “Take these.”

Bilbo did so automatically, looking down to inspect them. “Oh,” he said.

Thorin cleared his throat. “Are they okay?”

“You got me flowers?”

“Yes.”

“You _hate_ flowers.”

“They’re alright,” Thorin allowed.

“They’re roses.”

“They are, yes,” Thorin had no idea what a rose was. “Do you… like them?”

Bilbo nodded. “I do, yes. They’re very lovely.”

Thorin, feeling even more flustered now, felt like fleeing.

“Hold them for a second,” Bilbo said suddenly, pushing them back at Thorin.

Then he disappeared down the hall, leaving Thorin to stand alone uncomfortably.

Thorin was beginning to assume that it was a Hobbit thing.

Bilbo returned after a moment of rifling through his study. “I have something for you, too,” he told Thorin, coming back up to him and taking the flowers once more. He held his other hand now, opening it so Thorin could see what was nestle in his palm. “Take it, go on.”

Thorin picked the wooden ring up now, inspecting it. It was terribly done, and he suddenly understood why Bilbo had cut his hand the other week. “You made this?” he asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “You told me about the… Abdath…?” Bilbo huffed and gave up. “The ring you give to those you adore.”

“Albâth,” Thorin corrected. “Nazgu Albâth.”

“Well, I wanted to make you one, so… I did.” He peered at Thorin’s hand now. “I tried to make it as big as possible, although I still don’t think it will fit.”

Thorin tried it on his smallest finger and it wouldn’t budge past his knuckle.

Bilbo shrugged now. “It’s not the nicest thing, but… I think it’s quite alright for my first go, don’t you?”

Thorin just nodded, unable to form words.

“I, uh…” Bilbo looked as flustered as Thorin felt. “I’d better put these in some water.” He darted away nervously.

Thorin stood there for a good five minutes after, grinning like an idiot.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Thorin did was send word to his sister. He’d mentioned Bilbo in his letters before, but with Dwalin being there he knew she’d find out from him if she didn’t find out from Thorin. And if Dwalin was the one to tell her she’d probably skin Thorin alive.

Obviously Thorin wasn’t too keen on that idea.

So he wrote to her; told her about his Longing hitting, and then finding Bilbo, and then eventually starting to court him. He doesn’t mention Bilbo not knowing about Ones, or him being a Prince. He thought it’d be best to just be as vague as possible, lest she send more people over to smack him over the back of the head for being a fool.

Thorin was not being a fool- he was just taking his time, that’s all. There was nothing wrong with that. It had been a long while since he had the luxury of taking his time with something. He as making plenty of money from the forge, so he could send more than enough money back to the Blue Mountains and autumn was slowly folding into winter- so it would be foolish for him to travel anyway.

For the first time Thorin felt like he could relax.

Which was probably the first sign that he should have been on his guard.

It was Dwalin that screwed it all up- Thorin didn’t know how but when Dwalin came into the forge late one afternoon, looking like a dog with its tail between its legs he knew something had happened.

“What did you do?” he demanded immediately, setting down his hammer.

“I didn’t mean to,” was the first thing out of Dwalin’s mouth. “He was just curious about Dwarven culture and I accidentally…”

“Accidentally what?” Thorin’s brain was working overtime, struggling to think of which secret Dwalin could have let loose. “Was it the royal thing or the Longing thing?”

Dwalin was silent for a moment before blurting out. “The first.”

“Mahal give me the strength not to use your head as an anvil,” Thorin growled. “How in the hell did you manage to do that?”

Dwalin, still looking like he’d been caught out stealing cookies leapt to his own defence. “It was an accident! He’s a twisty little bugger- he tricked me!”

“You have got to be joking. _That’s_ your excuse, Dwalin?”

Dwalin shrugged a little. “It’s not entirely unsalvageable,” he insisted. “Bilbo didn’t seem _mad_ \- well, not completely mad anyway. He just sent me to find you.”

Thorin, instead of smacking Dwalin upside the head like he wanted to, just stalked out of the forge. “Close up the shop,” he barked over his shoulder.

Bilbo was pacing the living room when he arrived, clearly agitated. “Thorin,” he said, looking absolutely furious.

So much for not completely mad. “Bilbo,” Thorin began, “I can explain.”

“Can you?” Bilbo replied. “I’ve been housing you for four months now, and I thought we were closer than this but apparently not.”

“It’s not that,” Thorin insisted. “We are close. You _know_ we’re close.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well I hardly go around announcing that I’m the Prince of the Lost Kingdom, do I?” Thorin demanded, hardly able to control his anger; but as soon as it had spiked it faded away again.

But the words made Bilbo soften. “Lost?” he repeated quietly.

Thorin opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He sighed. “Erebor,” he explained eventually.

“The one the dragon attacked all those years ago?”

“Thirty-four years ago,” Thorin told him. “I’m not a Prince anymore,” he went on. “You can’t be a Prince when you don’t have a Kingdom. My people are given shelter in the Blue Mountains and we have a good life there- but it is not our home. I work as a smith to send money back home to what’s left of my family.”

Bilbo sighed, deflated, and sat down on the couch. “Come sit beside me,” he told Thorin, patting the cushions.

Thorin did as he asked. “You have every right to be mad- I should have told you-”

“That’s why Dwalin was going on about remuneration, yes?”

He nodded. “Yes. He thought you knew but I quickly corrected him on that.”

“He looked like he’d been hit with a skillet when he accidentally told me you were a Prince,” Bilbo started laughing now.

“He ran to me like a dog that had chewed up my boots,” Thorin replied, making Bilbo laugh even more. “Are you…” he was almost afraid to ask, “still mad?”

Bilbo huffed. “A little,” he declared. “But I don’t have much right to be anymore, I think. So long as there are no more secrets that you’re hiding from me.”

Thorin paused. “Ah…”

“What is it?” Bilbo asked, frowning in suspicion.

“There is something I should probably tell you about…” he admitted. “It’s a little hard to explain.”

“Is it big news?” Bilbo wondered.

“Yes.”

“Should I go and get my smelling salts?”

“That might be a good idea,” Thorin informed him. “You remember when I told you about Longings? Well...”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 coming whenever


End file.
